


the lake of drowned souls

by WingsOfTime



Series: ikael [28]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Bodyswap, Gen, a toedip into the macabre, feo ul makes a very minor appearance then laughs at them and checks out, freaky faeday, hallucinogenic and reality-altering elements, ie faerie fun time, some very soft spookiness, takes place after shb and will contain spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-10-09 04:23:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20495489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingsOfTime/pseuds/WingsOfTime
Summary: ... who would take your place, if they could.Thancred and Ikael spend an evening in each other's skin. It isn't all it's cracked up to be.





	the lake of drowned souls

“‘Oh, it’s perfectly _clean_, Thancred,’” Thancred mocks, peeling seaweed off his ankle. (Fae seaweed? Faeweed?) “‘You’re so _dirty_, Thancred. You need a _wash_, Thancred.’”

“You _were_ stinky,” Ikael points out. He is wringing out his tail, which seems to have avoided getting tangled in whatever grabby little weeds had clung onto Thancred. “And do you ever wash your armour? Your _gloves_? Those are leather! All your disgusting sweat and dirt gets absorbed by them!”

And blood from the fingernail he has broken, and sin eater gore, Thancred does not add, because he does not want to admit that Ikael has a point. At least, not to him. He makes a face at the lake they have just waded out of, resisting the urge to send the Fuath a much ruder gesture than that. He has seaweed in… _ugh_. _Ugh_. At least he kept his smalls on, though what good it did he does not know.

“Hurry up and put all that shite back on. I want to make it to Urianger’s before sundown,” Ikael tells him, giving his tail one last good thwap against his leg before beginning to tug his brais on. That is all he has to put on, besides his boots. It a hot day, and he has tied his scrap of a top around his arm, content to be bare-chested. Ordinarily Thancred would at least make fun of him a little, but now, faced with dragging on a few ponzes of heavy armour _and_ a full-length coat over damp skin, he is envious.

“I’d like to see how many blades _you_ can stop half naked like that,” he mutters anyways, yanking his pants on. Why are they so bloody tight?

_Ohoho, would you?_

Thancred glances up at Ikael. “Sorry?”

Ikael blinks at him. “What?”

“Did you say something?”

Ikael cocks his head. “No.”

Thancred gives his head a quick shake. “Never mind,” he says. “Help me with the buckles in the back, would you? I do not wish to tarry overlong in this wretched place either.”

_Oh, wretched, is it?_

The voice—or voices, it almost sounds like—are clearer this time. There are warning bells going off in Thancred's mind, somewhere small and in the distance, and he knows that he shouldn’t ignore them. But it has been a long day, and they are bruised and battered and battle-weary, and Urianger lives close enough nearby that the thought of sinking into the mattress of his spare bed has more of a pull on his thoughts than it usually would. Just a bell or so more of walking, he tells himself, and he won’t have to worry about seaweed, or lakes, or the bleeding cursed pixies.

“… salve for that,” Ikael is saying in his ear. “You’ll have to ask him when we get there. If you’re willing to endure him lecturing you for half a bell for getting it in the first place.”

Thancred breathes out what would pass as a laugh were he less exhausted. “You are asking me to suffer that _and_ his complaints about not taking him with us? ‘Tis a high demand.”

Ikael tightens a strap around his midsection, and Thancred grunts as it pulls his chestplate snug against a rather large bruise on his ribs. “You know what,” he rectifies, “I’ll chance it.”

Ikael claps him on the shoulder and then quickly helps him into his coat, and they set off once more. The sooner they can get to Urianger’s house, lectures or no, the better.

_Leaving so soon, are we? And without thanking us for the wash?_

Thancred fights back an eyeroll. “Thank you for letting us bathe in your slimy, seaweed-infested—”

“—Lovely! Lovely sw—ah, lake!” Ikael clamps a hand over his mouth. He shoots Thancred a warning glance. “We’ll just be heading back to Urianger’s place. You know Urianger?”

“Don’t ask them questions,” Thancred murmurs beneath his hand.

_Urianger! Yes, we know him! We know him!_

“Lovely!” says Ikael. Thancred shakes his head, even as the hand slips away. Careful, now. “We’re friends of his.”

_Oh, friends!_ There is a delighted, ringing laugh, followed by another, and another. _Friends of Urianger! Do you want to play a little game with us? Urianger loves our games!_

“Ikael…” Thancred mutters underneath his breath.

_Oh, oh!_ A separate voice, higher-pitched. _I can think of a lovely game! Yes!_

Ikael shoots him a nervous glance. “We, uh, don’t want to play any games, sorry,” he says. The voices titter.

Thancred takes a deep breath. “Urianger won’t like it if his friends come back any different,” he cautions. “If you play with us and hurt us, you will not get to play with _him_ again.”

_Oh, we won’t change you! No, we won’t!_ The voices sing. A new round of giggles drift in with the breeze. _No changing, yes, yes!_

_But switching? You wouldn’t say no to that!_

Thancred opens his mouth to reply, but suddenly finds that he cannot speak. He tries again, but he has no throat from which to form the words. He looks at Ikael, eyes wide, and sees him rush closer despite not moving at all—closer, closer still, and—

Thancred reels back, clutching at his temples. Oh, gods, what…? He gives his head a violent shake, then freezes. That had felt…

Slowly, gingerly, he reaches up to feel the sides of his head. (He ignores the itchy closeness of skin at his armpits, the sudden coolness of the air breathing on his chest). His hands meet… hair, but it is… different. Softer. They creep higher, searching for whatever he had felt flop against his skull.

He can hear the whisper of hair against his fingertips as he gets closer, faint and secret, and then something—two somethings—move. Thancred's fingers close around what he had known he would find, and dread sinks into his chest. Ears. Soft, large, floppy miqo’te ears.

“What,” he says, and his voice comes out an octave higher and a good deal scratchier, “have you done?”

There is no response. Finally, too late, those blasted pixies are silent.

Thancred dares to open his eyes, blinking a few times as his vision adjusts. In front of him stands… himself, looking far more startled than he has any right to.

Thancred licks his lips. “Ikael,” he says, extending a hand.

He sees his own eyes widen comically. His body jerks, doing a clumsy spin, craning his neck as he searches for—

“_Where’s my tail?!_” Ikael screeches with Thancred's voice. Then he hears what he sounds like, and he screeches again, but louder.

Thancred can feel the tail in question—it is flicking agitatedly against his shins, puffed up like an angry moogle’s pom. He holds out his other hand, taking a slow step forward.

“Right here, along with the rest of your body,” he says as calmingly as he can. He is not used to seeing—or feeling—panic in his own body language, but the general signs are obvious enough, and Ikael’s anxiety is recognizable in any state. His own brown eyes flick towards him, wide as saucers, and Ikael… smiles?

“You poor thing, you look as if you are about to implode,” he says in a tone Thancred knows is ill-concealed amusement. It is… odd, hearing his own voice, because he swears he sounds _different—_but it is odder still to not hear it when he himself speaks.

Ikael steps towards him—stumbles, rights himself—and lays a careful hand on his head. “Easy there, you startled little kitten,” he says. This time, he doesn’t bother to hide the lift of his lips. His voice dips lower. “You don’t need to be—Oh. Oh my.”

He clears his throat, withdrawing his hand. “Fuck me sideways with a gunblade,” he says in a low, sultry tone that Thancred has _never_ used in polite company. “Oh. _Oh_. Oh, _I_ cannot speak like this.”

Thancred feels the floppiness on his head flatten back. “Stop that,” he says. “It is… unnerving.”

Ikael’s smile curves into a grin. “Stop what? This?” he says in the same tone. He winks. “Make me.”

Thancred pinches the bridge of his nose. He feels those damn traitorous ears flare up, and he slams a hand on top of his head to force them down. It hurts. His tail wacks harder against his legs. “Stop flirting with me,” he growls, and oh, Ikael’s voice can do _that_ easier than his, “In my own—my own—”

He coughs. His words feel… stuck in his throat. What… ? He clears his throat, then tries again. “In my own godsda—_ahem_—damned voice. _What?”_

Ikael’s eyes widen in delight. “Oh,” he says. Then, sing-song, “_O-o-oh_.”

The word comes out melodic and, more shockingly, in tune. _Whole step, half step, _Thancred's—Ikael’s?—brain informs him, and he tells it to shut up.

Thancred's lips feel weak, as if they are too numb and clumsy to form words properly. He puts a hand to them, and realizes that his fingers are trembling.

“Easy there, _sína_,” Ikael says. His face creases into a very Ikael-like expression, gentle and reassuring. He steps forwards and easily pulls Thancred into his chest.

“This is—is—ridiculous,” Thancred says. But he is still shaking, and his thrice-damned ears are still shivering like mad. There are so many—_sounds—_and it is hard to speak, and… how does Ikael deal with all of this? Does he feel like this all the time?

He tries to pull himself together as he is used to doing, taking a deep breath low in his chest and letting it out slow and steadier than it came in. But it doesn’t work—there are too many things going on, too many sensations and smells—and that’s a big one, because now he can smell a _lot_ more, and Ikael was right about him reeking a little. The lake helped somewhat, but there’s an underlying… _film_ of sweat and blood on the body he is being held against that makes Thancred's new over-sensitive nose wrinkle.

Thancred tries to speak. It doesn’t work, and the sudden burst of frustration makes him want to—to hit something, oddly, from someplace high and hot in his chest. He doesn’t, of course, instead balling his fists tightly enough to feel his nails—which are clipped neat and short, possibly for this very reason—and biting his lip hard.

“What in the hells,” he finally manages to croak, “is _wrong_ with your body?”

He sees his own head tilt. “I don’t know,” Ikael replies. “But yours is… very clear. And…” He frowns. “So… _muted_. So quiet. I cannot…” He tips his head from one side to the other, and then turns it around. “I cannot hear much of anything. I cannot sense or smell anything.”

His voice quietens at this, becoming almost sad. That is all very well and good for him, and any other time Thancred would at least feign sympathy, but now he is too preoccupied with the fact that none of his tricks for calming himself are working on Ikael’s body. One part of him is taking notes, and the other is trying its best not to scream, despite the fact that he unexpectedly very much wishes to.

Ikael seems to notice this, and pulls him closer to himself, holding him tightly. Too tightly. Stale blood and metallic grime invade Thancred's new nostrils, and he turns his head away, trying not to gag.

“Oh! Sorry,” says Ikael. The armoured arms around Thancred loosen significantly, and he breathes a sigh of relief. He hears the soft slide of leather on skin and his ears swivel to the noise, instinctively seeking it out. Then the unmistakable feeling of a bare hand threads through his hair, petting soothingly. The effect of it is almost like magic. A blanket of calm envelops Thancred, and his rigid posture untenses, slumping. His tail stops flicking in agitation and relaxes, swaying slowly back and forth.

The hand smooths down his bangs and then moves to his ears, fondling gently but firmly. And suddenly Thancred understands, very, very well, why whenever he does this to Ikael, he turns into a melting, boneless heap. It feels _heavenly_.

An odd, scratchy rumble bumps out of his lips, and he hears himself laugh. “Oh, you are like a little kitten,” says his own voice, tinged with amusement. “Little kitten likes to purr, yeah?”

It is odd to hear Ikael’s cadence in his voice, especially when his accent thickens as it is now. Thancred only makes a noncommittal noise, leaning further into that—amazing, wonderful—touch.

“We will never speak of this,” he mumbles.

“Oh, I cannot guarantee that, _sína_.” Ikael sounds as if he is grinning.

“I’m serious,” Thancred protests. “This is humiliating. No one had better know, Ikael… or else.”

“You are _very_ threatening, darling.” Ikael is definitely grinning. “Very well. I will not tell anyone you turned into a gooey little purring kitten from a little petting.”

Thancred considers their positions, then knees Ikael between the legs. Nothing happens.

“You are wearing armour, darling,” Ikael informs him. Thancred groans.

~*~

“Uri_anger_,” an unfortunately familiar, high-pitched voice sing-songs. “My _darling_ little sapling got into a spot of trouble! Why don’t you be a dear and go help him out?”

Urianger’s eyes flick up from his tome. He closes it with one hand and lays it on the table in front of him, straightening his posture. He drains his last sip of his tea, and places the teacup on top.

“Thy majesty Titania,” he greets, bowing as best he can whilst seated. A glance around reveals naught but Ryne curled up in his armchair, eyeing him worriedly. “Not often enough dost thee grant me the pleasure of thine company.”

“Yes, yes, you talk too much—DID YOU HEAR ME?! I SAID GO HELP HIM OUT!”

“Is he in danger?” Ryne presses her hands together, eyes beginning to widen. “What happened?”

“A question I too must ask. Surely, were danger to befall him, thou wouldst wish to grant him thine own aid?” Urianger lifts his head, gaze flitting quickly around the room. The direction of the voice is impossible to pinpoint, so he addresses the air in front of him.

“Oh! No, he’s not in any _real_ danger.” Feo Ul almost sounds disappointed. “Him and that _angry,_ grumpy, mean man had a little prank played on them, that is all! It has been quite fun to watch, but now they are taking too long to sort it out, and I am getting bored. Go fix it.”

A sparkling chime of bells, and their presence disappears. Urianger sighs, smoothing down his dress before standing up.

“If I am not returned by twilight, call upon Titania once more,” he says to Ryne. She opens her mouth to protest, but he gives her a warning look. “Nay, thou art not journeying with me, child. If Ikael and Thancred both were ensnared by the pixies, jolly though they may be, I wouldst ill risk thy sanity as well. Rest here, and do not venture out ere dark.”

“I—” Ryne makes a pinched expression, then deflates. “Alright, fine. But I'm going looking for you after the first star shows in the sky.”

Urianger pauses at the door. He looks back at her with a smile. “The third, and thou shalt call for aid,” he reiterates. He waits until she sighs and nods, and then gracefully steps outside.

~*~

“I swear to the gods,” Thancred gasps as he sprints through the forest, blindly swatting dense vegetation and tall grass out of the way, “When I find Ikael again, and I find…” He pauses to pant raggedly, “… find the path leading out of… _wherever_ I am right now, there will be hells to pay.”

_Oh, but you can’t find anything yet! That would ruin our fun!_

“I couldn’t give less of a damn about your fun,” Thancred grits out. A thin, sharp branch swipes across his face and he bites back a curse, jerking his head away.

He doesn’t know whether it is because he is in Ikael’s body or whether he really would be this affected normally, but he feels as if every scratch, ever unwanted sensation that assails him is ten times worse than it should be. He has never reacted so… _bodily_ to feeling bark against his skin, or leaves slapping his face unexpectedly, or even his hair sticking to his sweat-dampened neck and forehead. The hyperawareness and constant compulsion to shudder is irritating, and difficult to get accustomed to. If it really is because he is in Ikael’s body, then the fellow himself has had years. Thancred has had an evening.

And he’s never been one for self-love, but he really, _really_ misses himself right now.

Vowing to never get annoyed at Ikael again when he wakes Thancred up in the middle of the night asking for him to change the bedsheets, he forges forwards towards his goal: a faintly glowing light up ahead. Despite his every instinct screaming at him to turn his back to it and run, whenever he has tried, it has simply moved in front of him. Moving backwards has not seemed to distance it. Thancred's only two choices are to keep moving, or to stay still and go nowhere.

But the trees are not changing.

He keeps running, relying half on his sight and half on Ikael’s borrowed instincts to avoid snagging roots and low-hanging branches. The damned tail, as annoying as it had been earlier, is helping greatly with this, whipping to counterbalance him whenever he trips or nearly falls. Thancred wonders for a fleeting second how Ikael is faring without it, then grimaces. They had gotten separated around a bell or so ago, and it has been near pitch-black running since. Ikael’s eyesight is barely better than his, but it _is_ better, and his body has the added benefit of… everything miqo’te have going for them that Thancred does not. The poor blighter is probably having a wretched time in Thancred's skin.

He is almost there. The light is so close.

(And the trees are still the same.)

_Ooh, watch out!_ a voice calls from his right.

Both his ears immediately swivel to the sudden sound as he jerks to face it, and that is all it takes for his entire sense of direction to be yanked from underneath him. Thancred stumbles, then trips as his foot catches on something jutting up from the ground. His world tilts, and the light _swells—_

Then all at once vanishes as Thancred collides with something dark and warm._ Old books, cloth, dust, the lingering tingle of aether,_ Ikael’s nose tells him. _A person._

“Oh—apologies—” Thancred tries to right himself, pushing against a tall chest. He is saved the effort by hands that are not his own, steadying him and smoothing over his shoulders before gently pushing him away to arm’s length.

A lantern sways, and warm orange light dances across a familiar angular face, sharp cheekbones and brow casting long, bending shadows across dusky skin. Thancred blinks rapidly, swiping his bangs away from his eyes.

“Urianger?”

Urianger’s face creases into a concerned frown. “Ikael,” he says back. His hands stay warm on Thancred's bare shoulders, thumb pressing into the fabric he has retied around his chest (Ikael has sensitive nipples, he has learned through absolutely the worst possible way). “Wherefore didst thou wade into troubled waters?”

“I…” Thancred has to take a moment to decipher that, because the word ‘waters’ sticks in his mind and only adds to his slowly-mounting confusion. Had it been the water that had caused this? Wait, how did Urianger get here? How did _Thancred_ get here? The light is…

A quick glances around reveals the absence of any light other than the gentle flicker of Urianger’s lantern. They are standing in an empty little patch of space, bare of anything save knee-length grass. The forest Thancred has been running through looks a lot thinner when he glances back, and he swears the trees are...

Different. The now familiar sharp shapes have changed, shifted and swayed into curves. Thancred frowns, pressing the heel of his palm to his forehead; he is getting a headache.

“Ah, do not trouble thyself so. Peace, now.” He is pulled into his second uninitiated hug of the day, this time against the soft cotton scent of Urianger’s dress. He breathes in deeply despite himself, caught a little off guard. He does not usually ever get _this_ close to Urianger, even in battle. But he is warm, and familiar, and one of his large hands is smoothing over Thancred's hair. It is… somewhat comforting, he will admit.

“I, ah…” He—maybe reluctantly, fine—pulls back. After a few seconds. “I am not Ikael—I am Thancred.” Urianger’s frown creases. Thancred continues, “We stumbled into a bit of an odd situation, as you can see. I cannot find Ikael, Urianger—I don’t—I don’t know where he is—we were—were separated…”

Anxiety seeps into his throat again and closes it, and Thancred forces himself to take a deep breath, shutting his eyes. In, out. He does not know whether Ikael’s body simply lends itself to being more emotional—and that does sound ridiculous, now that he thinks about it—or whether it is some strange psychological limitation Thancred has lifted from himself—more likely—but whichever it is, it feels oddly… freeing.

For now. Thancred has no wish to spend the rest of his lifetime jumping at shadows.

Urianger’s hand folds over his ears. Thancred frowns, pushing it away. “Do not,” he says. He is in no mood to be petted right now.

“If thou speakest truly, t’would explain the strangeness in thine aether. Very well, then, I shall accept it for now. From whence didst thou flee?” Urianger’s gaze skims over his head. “There ist no path beyond thee.”

“I don’t know. I changed directions a few times and it didn’t seem to make a difference. They were the same _bloody _trees.” Thancred's tail flicks agitatedly, hitting the back of his knees. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Until now. But I don’t even remember running into a forest in the first place. Suddenly I was simply… in one.”

“This may not come as a comfort to thee, but neither did I notice mine surroundings shift.” Urianger swings his lantern in a wide arc, inspecting the forest around them. “I was on a path with little foliage.”

Thancred groans. “You’re right. It doesn’t come as a comfort.”

“This does mean, perchance, that whomsoever is causing this desireth to bring us together. Mayhaps if we remain still, Ikael shall soon rejoin us.”

“Remain… still?” Thancred frowns, then squints up at Urianger as a wheel slowly turns in his head. “Wait. You’re saying that all of my running made absolutely no progress, and all I had to do a bell ago was… simply stand there and do nothing?”

It makes sense, he realizes. He hadn’t even stopped moving until he’d tripped, and then immediately afterwards he had collided with Urianger…

Urianger makes a considering noise. Thancred groans again.

“Fine,” he mutters. Half-jokingly, he adds, “Tell me a story to pass the time then, oh Fae-walker.”

Urianger’s face is cloaked in shadow. “There once fared a lamb,” he says, voice aged and strange, “That drew too far from its flock.”

A cool breeze breathes across Thancred’s skin, prickling gooseflesh on his bare arms. He shivers.

~*~

“Thou shalt set his garment ablaze.”

“No, I won’t. Trust me.” Thancred concentrates on the candle in his hands, trying to coax it to ignite once more. “I’ll make it last for longer than a second this time.”

There is a pause. Urianger says, placidly, “Trust thee I do with mine life. Not, however, with untrained magicks and foolish risk-taking.”

“I give you an opening like that and you whine about my magick skills?” Thancred mutters under his breath. He stares harder at the candle, which stubbornly refuses to do so much as spark. “Oh, who am I kidding. Of course you do.”

“…Or flames,” Urianger adds as an apparent afterthought, ignoring him.

“Oh!” Thancred's borrowed tail whips to the side excitedly, and he bats Urianger on the arm. “Did you see that? I swear there was smoke.”

“Thou art working with the residual _tendrils_ of Ikael’s magicks, faint though they are, as thou still hast naught of thine own.” Urianger’s voice shifts into what Thancred has long-since dubbed his ‘lecturing’ tone. “As I hath _told_ thee—”

Thancred is saved from whatever he is going to say next by a sudden chaotic rustling from their left. Urianger goes silent—finally—and Thancred steps in front of him automatically, settling into a defensive posture.

An extremely familiar body bursts through the trees.

“Oh!” Thancred's very own—attractive, alluring, scintillating—brown eyes widen. Then the rest of his face creases dramatically, relief evident in its features. “I—Thancred? Urianger, is that you? Gods, I’ve been running for—for _ages_—”

He stalks forwards, pushing past Thancred to throw himself into Urianger’s arms and cling tightly. Urianger stumbles and then goes still, looking just a little startled at the visual of Thancred, of all people, running forward and hugging him. Thancred himself, now stepping around to take in what he looks like from the back, understands the feeling.

Ikael—if that really is him—pulls back, swiping a hand across his eyes. “I lost track of you!” he cries, turning to Thancred with a very Ikael-like expression. “I-I-I…”

He sniffs. The sound is dry, so perhaps he is simply going through the motions of crying, since he does not seem to be shedding actual tears either. Thancred tilts his head, eyelids falling slightly.

“_I _lost track of _you_.” He nudges Ikael with his elbow. The contact sends a jolt through his arm, and he quickly pulls back. “You shouldn’t run off like that, you know.”

Ikael shoots him a familiar roguish grin. “I’m sorry for worrying you,” he says, opening his arms. “Now come here. For reunion’s sake, yes? I missed you.”

Thancred chuckles. “For reunion’s sake, of course,” he says. “But you must answer me a question first. Indulge my curiosity.”

“Alright.” Ikael cocks his head, eyes bright.

Thancred smiles. “Why hasn’t Urianger moved?” he asks.

Ikael’s lashes just barely flutter. “What?” he replies softly.

“I said,” Thancred crosses his arms, dropping his smile, “Why has Urianger gone _perfectly still_ since you touched him?”

Ikael looks at Urianger. His face is still frozen in that expression of faint surprise, and his arms lay parted at his waist. He does not say a word.

Ikael looks back at Thancred. “Oh,” he says. His smile slithers off his mouth. “I should have gotten you first.”

He advances, stride shifting into something eerily purposeful. Thancred darts back—hears the whispers of the trees behind him, changes course—dodges to the side.

“We are done with playing your games,” he says. “Begone, and return my friends to me.”

Ikael’s eyes shine unnaturally bright. “_It is not my game,”_ he whispers with the forest.

The small clearing they are in seems to—shrink. Thancred dares not disappear into it and the darkness beyond. He stands firm, clenching his fists.

“You lot like threes, don’t you?” he asks a slowly advancing Ikael. “I understand now. Three tests.”

“_One, two, three,_” says Ikael. _“I, I, I.”_

“One,” Thancred continues, “The forest. I had Urianger’s help with that. Two, this. The poor bugger got taken before I could return the favour and solve it for him.”

“_You’re very smart_,” hisses Ikael. He bares his sharp teeth into what could have once been a grin.

“And so I wonder,” Thancred keeps speaking. Ikael is slowly coming closer to him, in no hurry. The forest around them shrieks in delight as it nears. “I wonder, what is the third test?”

“_Perhaps you shall never know, mortal.”_ Its hand reaches out for his face. Thancred’s expression on its face twists into something savage and tender. “_Oh, Thancred…”_

“No, I don’t think I will,” Thancred breathes. His skin tingles from the proximity of its hand, just almost brushing his skin. “Unless, of course, Ikael tells me.”

A sharp _bang_ splits the air, and the forest screams. The body that is not Thancred's nor Ikael’s screams with it. Its head bursts in a shower of blood and dark, glittering aether.

It collapses to the ground. Thancred looks past it to see himself for the second time, standing there with gunblade held aloft and smoking at the barrel.

“I am so,” he hears his own voice growl, “_fucking_ tired of this place, I swear to the gods.”

Thancred's lips quirk into a miniscule, genuine smile. “_Now_ you’re beginning to sound like me,” he says.

There is a long, ragged gasp, and they both turn to see Urianger stumble back, gasping for breath. “Mine—mine apologies,” he rasps as Ikael-in-Thancred's-body rushes forwards to steady him. “Oh, I thank thee. That is… if thou truly art the veritable… whosoever.”

“I am the veritable whosoever,” Ikael confirms, looping an arm around Urianger’s waist. “I’m the veritabliest whosoever that ever whosoevered.”

“Now a faerie would never say something as inane as that, even if they were pretending to be you.” Thancred moves to Urianger’s other side, ready to take his weight if he has to. “Urianger, are you alright? Can you stand?”

“I fare… passably well. I am merely disoriented.” Urianger presses a hand to his forehead. “Ugh. That wast a wretched feeling indeed. I couldst fein breathe, nor speak, and my chest didst ache for want of both. I thank thee for stepping in, Ikael.”

He bows, a little clumsily. Thancred steadies him with a hand on his waist.

“And how do we know you truly are Ikael?” He arches an eyebrow at the being in question. “Jests aside, this all quite a tricky business, what with the body-swapping and all.”

“His aether… ‘tis not twisted as his duplicate’s wast,” Urianger says between deep breaths. “Yet it is… offset, as thine is. Furthermore, behold.”

He points, and Thancred looks. The forest directly in front of them—eerily so—has parted, trees bending and bowing to clear a thin path for the three of them to take. Thancred frowns at it.

“I understand thine reluctance, my friend,” Urianger says before he can voice his doubts. “But in the eyes of the fae, a game well-played ist a game finished. We hath only a singular path to follow.”

Thancred's ears flatten back. “I don’t like it in the slightest, but… you know best,” he concedes, stepping in front of them. “Very well then—I’ll take point. Ikael, you keep up the rear. Keep the gunblade at the ready.”

Ikael salutes, then winks. “Aye, you sexy little cat,” he says.

“And don’t start that shite with the voice again,” Thancred warns him, then gestures for them to slowly advance. They fall into a familiar formation, footsteps muffled in the tall grass.

“Ikael,” he hears Urianger murmur over the whispering of the thrice-shifted trees, “We hath faced a trial of the fae each. Hast thee also, I wonder?”

“Oh,” Ikael replies a little too loudly, “The shite with the talking pie? Yeah.”

Thancred glances back despite himself. “I’m sorry, talking pie?”

Ikael shoots him a puzzled look from behind his own bangs. “Yeah,” he says. “What? What were your trials like, then?”

Thancred tugs on his ear irritably, turning back around. “Urianger went into shock, and I personally travelled through the depths of the seven hells,” he grumbles. Talking pie, bah. Thancred hates Il Mheg.

“Oh! That sounds, uh… horrid. Are you two alright?”

“We shalt recover in full when we are returned home, Ikael, and there also shall we recount the fullness of our tale. Now come; let us tarry no longer to get thee both back in thine true selves. Young Ryne awaiteth.”

~*~

It turns out that the path that has opened for them is a journey to not the next step, but the end. No sooner have they stepped past its threshold into an open field lit by the last rays of the sun that Ikael and Thancred are struck by an immense, invisible force, hurtling them together.

They collide painfully, and it is only after they stumble back and hold their hands to their heads that they realize that those are, in fact, their very own hands, and that they are, in fact, back in their bodies where they should be.

“Seems like the game is finally over,” Thancred says.

“My ears,” Ikael practically sobs, fondling himself. “Oh gods. My tai—my _tail_. Oh, I missed you! Kael missed you, yes, _yesh_.”

“Now that is too strange of a fetish even for me,” Thancred comments as he devolves into baby talk. “But I have to agree; I am glad to be rid of your…” He breaks off to close his eyes and inhale deeply, relishing in the fullness of his lungs. “… Ah. Of your skin, my friend. No offense meant, of course.”

Ikael is too busy covering his tail in kisses to respond. Urianger looks over the both of them, and says with a curling smile, “Full glad am I to see thee both whole and hale. Come—the land ahead of us ist familiar to me. ‘Tis but a short walk home.”

“What did the _nashty_ Thancwed do to you, honeykins?” Ikael coos. “Oh, you are sho _dirty_…”

“Perhaps we can leave him behind,” Thancred suggests, eyeing him.

Urianger laughs, full and deep in his throat. “Perhaps,” he agrees with twinkling eyes. 

~*~

The door to Urianger’s cottage bursts open before Thancred can so much as raise his hand to open it. Someone collides with him, squeezing the breath out of his chest. He breaths out a hoarse laugh, hugging Ryne back.

“Don’t tell me you became bored enough of Urianger’s tomes that you actually noticed we were missing?” he teases as he smoothes down her hair. She huffs and pulls back slightly to scowl at him.

“I was just about to go looking for you! You aren’t allowed to run off trouble without me ever again, do you understand?”

Thancred grants her a small grin. He doesn’t otherwise reply, patting her on the head before gently handing her off to Ikael and stepping inside the cottage.

“What—hey, what is that supposed to…? Oh, Ikael, I missed you too! It gets awfully quiet in here with no one to chat with…”

Their voices fade out as Thancred strides into the living room. He goes directly to Urianger’s largest sofa and collapses on it, face first.

“Thine exhaustion lendeth itself best to a bed, dearest Thancred,” Urianger comments a few minutes later, skirts swishing as he moves around. Thancred's ears twitch on instinct, but thankfully do not move to follow him.

“I think he’s flirting with you,” he hears Ikael’s voice say. There is a series of quiet, rapid sniffs, and then, “Urianger, lovely, do you have a… a fur comb? Oh, but I need a bath…”

“I hath a fine-toothed one for those such as thee. Upstairs, next to mine brush. Run thyself a bath if thou so desirest; supper shalt take me some time to prepare.”

“Oh, thank you…” Quick footsteps as Ikael patters off.

“Thou couldst do with a wash as well.” Urianger’s voice has a thin vein of amusement running through it.

“Eh?” Thancred lifts his head, then groans and adjusts himself so he is sitting upright. “Ugh… yes, I imagine I could. I’ll go after Ikael is out. Oddly enough, it was a wash that started this all…”

He wrinkles his nose. He _still_ doesn’t understand the whole point of this merry journey they have been on.

Urianger sits across from him, crossing his legs beneath his skirts. “Perchance this was all to teach thee a lesson,” he muses, guessing Thancred's line of thought.

“What sort of lesson involves something as odd as _that_?” Thancred drums his fingers on the armrest. He glances up as Ryne trots in from the kitchen, cradling a bowl of treenuts. “Oh, hullo Ryne. Thank you, I’m quite starved.”

She lays the bowl down on the coffee table before walking over to him, leaning down slightly so her face is in front of hers. “Smoochie,” she requests, tapping her cheek.

“Ah…” Thancred is half proud and half pained. “I do not know how Ikael influenced you to use his made-up nonsense words," he complains, but he leans forwards nevertheless to give her a soft peck on the cheek.

Ryne smiles at him. He smiles back, and then she turns and disappears once more into the kitchen. Thancred watches her with a distant gaze.

“Perhaps the lesson was to teach thee to value what thou hast,” Urianger intones in a gravelly voice. Thancred glances at him, arching an eyebrow.

“If so, I don’t quite think it worked,” he points out. “Honestly, if anything, I learned to value what I _don’t _have. Do you know how… _sensitive_ Ikael’s skin is? It can be, ugh.” He shudders at the memory. “Sort of awful. Something would brush against me the wrong way and I felt it through my entire body. Not quite like I was going to be sick, but more as if…”

He trails off into a considering hum. “I do not quite think there is a way I could describe it to you properly. You have to experience it first hand.”

“Then mayhaps _that_ wast the point.” Urianger reaches for a treenut. “Walking in the shoes of thine closest companion, to discover yet how little thou knowest of him. Or mayhaps there wast no point at all. Oftentimes the Fae playeth puppeteer with the strings of Fate for no goal more profound than that of their own amusement.”

Thancred shrugs loosely. “Perhaps,” he agrees. He sinks back into the couch. “And… it was not all bad, being him. Either way, it all worked out in the end, didn’t it? A story to tell to Y'shtola and the twins, I suppose. At the very least they can make fun of us.”

“A mother bird bringeth back more food to her oft-stuffed younglings,” Urianger replies with a nod.

They settle into their usual routine of an evening at Urianger’s cottage. Thancred goes quiet and reflects on the darker points of the day. Ryne, who has been experimenting in the kitchen due to Ikael’s influence, nearly sets the roof on fire. Urianger calms it with a sidelong glance and a wave of his hand. Ikael uses up all the hot water. Urianger warms it with another sidelong glance and a slightly more brisk wave of his hand.

All is well.

~*~


End file.
